Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 30, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

4-30-03 wed. brick NJ 10pm

it's strange how everything you were can suddenly forget now. funny the way that the songs fade in and out no different from every breath that i take. just as futile. just as shallow.

waiting. well, wating never got me nothing but more of the same. and asking. always askings only exhumed all the questions i had buried. asking. always asking only proved to be more painful than enlightening.

it was then. then it was now. now it's tonght, but they all mix together. they all croon the same song. no reason. no why anymore. and even if i had the strength to ask again, i wouldn't. it's not the answers that i don't know. it's the questions. it's not the right answers i've sought. it's better questions to hold.

fuel the silence with your brooding. slice your life into pie pieces like a chart of misery. fifty percent wasted. forty five percent lost. and the other five percent unaccounted for. measure your life with love not time. if you only could. if love is the measuring stick then i guess that i have never lived. measure your world in hope rather than years. in friends instead of accomplishments. it only makes it worse. not better like it ought to. it only proves what i've always written.

i sought. i always have. i asked. always too many questions. i gave. never asked. and it got me nothing. it only got me less than i already had. a little liess each minute until. fawning on that final eclipse of a moment when it all finds its grande finale. worshipping that crux of disappointment when hope at last decides to die. when love at last subsides. and allows life to forget. life to pretend that it never did. that one small piece that must always remember buried deeper than even yourself can find. that one small corner where it all lays dormant darker than your darkest depression.

it's then. it's now. it's here. us and them and inbetween. you and me and the people we tried to be.

strange the way that time makes everything seem like a picture. stare until sleep unfolds. strange how life can move so slowly that you don't even know it's still alive, and yet still it moves you. i type. i write diligent. the lines so peristent. strange how we always remember much better than it actually was. funny how the heart only remembers the moments that it truly loved. strange how life can do that. forget what it doesn't want and only remember when. only remember when it was as you needed. almost as if that's the way it always was. almost as if it happened, even if it didn't.